


Sooner or later, darling, you're gonna get eaten

by Saint_Katyusha



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Cannibalism, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 04:07:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10209290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saint_Katyusha/pseuds/Saint_Katyusha
Summary: Will is pulled from layers of sleep and dream by a phone call from Hannibal. He rises, he dresses-- he is at Dr. Lecter's door. For the briefest moment, a very small part of him anticipates something. For the briefest moment, Will braces himself.





	

_if you’re gonna dine with the cannibals_  
_well sooner or later, darling, you’re gonna get eaten_  
_but I’m glad you’ve come around here with your animals_  
_and your heart that is bruised but bleating_  
_and bleeding like a lamb_  
_**[cannibal’s hymn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lifrd-gagcA) | nick cave & the bad seeds** _

* * *

 

Letting himself into the house after a while spent knocking and ringing the doorbell, Will noticed how damp it was inside. He called out to announce his arrival, but the house was silent. He wondered what had happened as Hannibal phoned for him to come over, sounding urgent, but not in any panic. He looked around. The walls were beaded with moisture, the faint sound of dripping water coming from deep within the house. The air smelled of mould. After idling about the entranceway, Will moved towards the living room, but stopped when a low, yet heavy thump caught his attention. It came from no particular direction, but Will decided to go into the kitchen. It was empty, so he called out to Hannibal.

“I’m here”, was the reply from somewhere else in the house.

Will removed his glasses and rubbed his face, feeling strange. Perhaps it was the oddly damp air, or the smell he noticed when he walked into the kitchen. It smelled like the rotting foliage that covers the ground of a rainy and wet forest. Will knew that Hannibal was somewhere in the house, but he wasn’t coming out to greet him. He wasn’t sure where Hannibal's voice had come from, so he called out again. Hearing no reply, he put his glasses back on and went out of the kitchen and into the living room. As he entered through the doorway, someone grabbed his right arm and twisted it painfully behind his back, cracking a bone in the process. Will let out a harsh breath of air muffling a scream, and spun around, but found himself alone. He reached for his gun, but like the attacker, it had vanished. Feeling incredibly disoriented, and failing to think of what else to do, Will cradled his injured arm and quickly walked to the front door. His head thumped. The door was locked, as he expected it to be. It did not move even as Will rattled and pulled and pushed the handle. The dampness suddenly felt too thick as floorboards creaked above his head. He could still hear the dripping. He was becoming more and more unsettled, and he feared (or perhaps, rejoiced) that this might be a dream. He looked down at his arm. No, it felt too real. But doesn’t it always?

There was a back door, surely. He started to move towards a different room when something soundlessly attacked him from behind. This time Will cried out loudly and tried turning around but did not get a chance to look at his attacker as his other arm was quickly twisted back in a similar fashion, and both wrists bound together in the uncomfortable position. The attacker moved quickly, binding Will's wrists and pushing him into a bookshelf in one swift motion. Will stumbled, but finally turned around. He saw Hannibal throwing down the gun he must have with stealth removed from Will’s jacket at some point. Any fear, shock, or surprise Will felt at that point was drowned out by the thought of what an opaque position this was, in that house, with his eyes darting from Hannibal’s unreadable expression to the place in the ceiling from which black water was dripping on to the light green fabric of Hannibal’s shirt, right on his shoulder.

Will glanced towards the room he had been walking towards, and noticed the body of another man, a younger man, lying on the floor near the window. He was dead, or unconscious. Probably the former, as his head was turned to one side in an unnatural position. Hannibal took hold of Will’s face in an attempt to force Will into looking at him. His eyes were fixed on Will’s, while the other man tried to cough up his voice. Accusation? Question?  Hannibal held Will’s jaw with one hand while the other hand reached round to grab the hair on the back of Will's head. 

“I haven’t been having a good day, there are some unexpected matters to settle so I’m forced into doing this much earlier than I would have liked”, Hannibal said. 

Will found his voice as he breathed out some sort of statement in the form of a question regarding what is was Hannibal was doing (Will wondered whether it was pathetic of him to have anticipated such a situation). He was struggling to get free, but Hannibal’s grip on his head was too strong for him to overcome. Soon, he stilled, and it wasn’t out of fear, but anger. Anger and resentment for letting himself trust Hannibal. Will didn’t think he suffered from poor judgment, but his mind had been groaning away like a machine in need of oiling. Too much to keep track of. Too much to take in to himself, too much to absorb. It cracked him apart, slowly, leaving behind voids of empty space where dark things could hide. He thought of this, and for the briefest moment felt glad for his surely coming death. He felt glad that he’ll be stabbed or shot or poisoned or strangled or beaten out of this world. He thought of this and took no notice as Hannibal pulled him to his feet (when did he fall down?) and led him back towards the kitchen.  He allowed himself to be led away like this, Hannibal’s hand still roughly holding his head so it faced forward. Hannibal did not give Will the chance to look at him over his shoulder as they walked.

Once they were in the kitchen, (a symbolic act, Will thought, perhaps, perhaps) Hannibal pushed the younger man into the centre of the room, letting go of his head and bound arms,  himself remaining in the doorway. He placed his hands behind his back and spoke to Will, who had stumbled into a marble counter, his mind devoid of alternative options for action.

“You should know that this is special treatment. It's quite exciting, it’s been some time since I’ve skipped on the preparation, so to speak.” He was talking slowly and with great care placed into every word, as if being selective about what Will heard was extremely important to killing him.

“Tomorrow night I'll be hosting a dinner for five.” He motioned towards the living room. “Tonight, a dinner for one, let’s say.” He began to walk towards Will, who was still leaning on the counter he’d stumbled into, breath coming in painful, shallow gasps, the pain of his broken arm overcoming him. “I thought it was time to leave for a while, but not before this. I think you’d agree that I deserve this”, Hannibal continued. He began to walk in slow circles around the kitchen, around Will, as if mocking the dance of the wild beast in hunt. “It's most likely too early for this, but the temptation is too great. You have made it so easy for me to stay here as long as I have, that should be acknowledged.  I manage on my own, but you being around made things more… comfortable.” He now stood in front of Will again, his smile devoid of any real sincerity, yet not entirely cruel. “There is no need to say anything more.”

Will’s head was drooping forward. His mind was working slowly. He tried processing what Hannibal was saying. His voice, behind him, then in front of him. Had Hannibal been using him for something? He no longer felt glad to meet with death. He felt ill, Hannibal’s words – as cold and false as he suspected them to be – made him think that he had deserved more too. All he had set out to do had sprouted from the knowledge that he had the power to help. The power to help, unfortunately, did not seem to touch him.

There was, however, no more time to contemplate himself, as in that moment Hannibal moved forwards, seized him by the shoulders, and pushed his back painfully into the marble counter, biting into the flesh of the curve where neck and collarbone met. The surprise and shock of what was happening sobered Will’s mind for a moment, but the effect was brief, as he soon found himself falling backwards to lie on the counter, Hannibal tearing into the flesh of his neck, the guttural sounds he was making leading Will to think he were consuming his blood, lapping it up like a thirsty dog. He felt completely overcome by the suddenness of the act, and while having sensed his own approaching death, this was not what he had expected. He could hear a groaning sound, muffled, but could no longer tell if it was coming from himself or Hannibal. 

He tried to buck Hannibal off, but the effort suddenly seemed too great, the immense pain of his neck breaking through the numbness of shock. The marble of the kitchen counter felt cool against his back, thrashing legs became still. They dangled over the side of the counter, twitching slightly. Hannibal did not need to hold him any longer, yet he clutched at Will’s shoulders with what seemed an even greater intensity than before, tearing at his neck, urgently chewing on the chunks of flesh that had become loose, drinking the hot blood that flowed. He was not usually this messy. But then again, it wasn’t usually the blood of people like Will that coated his face, ran down his throat and into his heart. He slowed his pace, and was soon merely licking the wound, almost burying his face into it, breathing deeply. He wondered whether Will would appreciate, if it was explained to him, what a moment like this felt like. He was unusually perceptive. Memories of the various amusements that interacting with Will had brought him went through his mind as he realized that Will was now lying quite still. He pulled away, satisfied, satiated, and looked at the man lying in front of him. He was conscious, but barely. What a sturdy boy, Hannibal thought. Will seemed calm in his current state of injured unconsciousness, almost as if he were sleeping – head rolled over to the side, half-closed lids concealing eyes looking nowhere, mouth closed, despite the fact he had yelled out the moment he was grabbed to be fed upon. To be eaten. Hannibal thoughtfully placed his hand on the bloodied, fleshy mess of Will’s neck, running his palm over the wound, then down to feel the blood soaked into the fabric of Will's shirt. As he stood thinking - wondering, deciding - sounds came from Will’s throat, whimpering sounds of a dying man unable to understand why death had not come so painlessly. His eyelids fluttered open, then closed again. He seemed to be sighing, but Hannibal knew it was merely a reaction based on instinct, an attempt to get some air into his failing lungs.

 

* * *

 

“I was planning on going to Switzerland for a while before returning to America.” Hannibal spoke dryly yet slowly as he wrapped bandages around Will’s shoulder and neck. “It would be best to go together, don’t you think?” He received no reply, and continued wrapping Will’s wounds in silence. He wondered about the future, and whether he might come to regret what he had done. There were mistakes in the past, of course there were. But Hannibal was incapable of summoning enough memories of deep regret, not after so many years, at least. So many years. He could fix it if it turns sour. He knew how to do that now. To turn situations and minds in his favour. Will was simply… too much of a curiosity to let go of just yet. He finished dressing the wounds and went across the room to sit in a chair, rubbing his bloodied hands, half-worried, half amused at his own surprising change of heart.

“So, how is death, hm?”     

Will wasn’t silent because death had cramped his breath. Will was silent because he was angry.

**Author's Note:**

> it's unclear whether will is hallucinating the state of the house or not, but i do want to imply that hannibal's house becomes haunted. not in an obvious, traditional way. but in that mythical, fantastical way where the reality of a space becomes distorted by the atrocities occurring within. you step inside such places and you know that something is deeply wrong. I thought a mysterious excess of moisture would be a unique way to illustrate that.


End file.
